


From The Side of The Mirror

by Poetiicdissonance



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21957472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetiicdissonance/pseuds/Poetiicdissonance
Summary: Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore met in 1899, but many others would see the tremors that that meeting would spark. The aftershocks, the echoes, it was witnessed by many, but only ever in the barest flashes.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2019





	From The Side of The Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NiciLupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiciLupin/gifts).



> Hi, I'm your gifter! Happy holidays, I hope you like this! It was using your prompt of seeing the relationship from a bunch of different perspectives, because I figured you'd get some fun opinions depending on when and who they see it from.

**_I. Bathilda Bagshot, 1899_ **

It was Bathilda who introduced them. Gellert was brilliant, that much was clear from only a few hours of watching him devour the books she had on magical theory and of complex spellwork in her library. She had known full wizards who had never even thought, or been capable of what her great-nephew was doing. It had seemed only sensible to introduce him to Albus.

She had been there since the Dumbledore’s had moved into Godric’s Hollow, and she knew that Albus was brilliant in a way that meant getting brought back would drive him insane. She had read his article in the papers, and knew, even at seventeen, that he was going to do great, great things. She had been young and brilliant once too, and she understood what it was like.

Inviting Albus over for tea had been simple, even bringing Gellert away from his studies had been relatively easy, the promise of a conversation with someone she believed he would find an equal had been enough to get him to entertain the idea, even if she knew he doubted the truth of it. Hours later she saw them engrossed in conversation, heads bent over a book, tea abandoned in pursuit of more interesting things. 

That moment had been repeated a thousand times that summer; the two pressed as close as they could be, as they bent over parchment or books, discussing things that would make most professors heads spin. Maybe it hadn’t been love, but it had been something that shook the little town to its foundations-- would shake the whole world to its core, even in none of them had known that at the time. Bathilda knew that much, and even if they never told her, she knew there was more than friendship between them. (The sounds of the quill scratching, and the opening and closing of the window to send letters back and forth in the early hours of the morn had stopped being odd after a day or two).

She was never certain how aware they were of her. Perhaps they had known exactly how much she knew and simply trusted her enough, or didn’t care, and maybe not, maybe they simply didn’t know. In the end, she doubted how much it mattered. All the subtlety in the world hadn’t stopped what had happened. The cauldron had bubbled over, and Ariana Dumbledore was dead. 

**_II. Elphias Doge, 1900_ **

London winters were cold, they’d been the same when he and Albus had been young and in school, and after over a year abroad that hadn’t changed. It felt like a lifetime ago now since they had been students. It hadn’t been, it hadn’t even been long since, less than three years, and yet the world had moved on, the turn of the century arriving with all the excitement that had entailed.

Albus seemed old in the way that only experience made you- tired. Ariana was dead, and Elphias knew there was more to the story than Albus was telling him. More to the brilliant Gellert Grindelwald than a brief friendship that had ended in a fight. He had fought with Albus, it was inevitable, and even in their largest argument, it had never ended in the way that this had. Albus looked distant, like he was seeing something in reverse and Elphias yearned to comfort him.

The conversation flowed easily though, and their habits hadn’t changed that much. Albus was still familiar like he had been when they had left Hogwarts. In the back of his mind Elphias noted the way Albus looked at the newspaper on the table beside them like he was expecting to see something other than news about the most recent scandal in the ministry.

**_1911_ **

Elphias understood now, why all those years ago Albus had looked at the papers like he was expecting to see something. He held a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands, headlines bold in the way the Prophet always was. Only a few years ago he had seen the news that Gregorovich had the Elder Wand stolen, and even if he hadn’t known by who, Elphias had. 

And now the ‘original’ copy of the Tale of the Three Brothers had taken a similar turn, taken by a thief in the night. Now though, he understood the way Albus’ eyes flickered to the paper on the table, the article staring up at them.

“You’ll have to fight him one day.”

“I know.”

“Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but one day.” and it was true. If Grindelwald had the wand, it would take someone exceptional to defeat him, and Elphias knew, without divination, or the Sight, that it would have to be Albus. 

Albus had described him as brilliant and world-changing, this, he knew, would be nothing but the beginning.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Elphias.”

“I don’t think there is in this…”

“I suppose I’ll have to be able to then.” 

(It will only be years later when Elphias learns about the blood pact, that he came to understand the enormity of what they had been, or what they meant, and even then he doubts he truly knew. He doubted anyone ever did).

**_III. Newt Scamander, 1928_ **

Newt rolled the small vial between his finger and thumb, eyes focused on the small part where he knew that the blood was. He’d known there must have been a reason for Dumbledore’s refusal to fight Grindelwald, but he’d never guessed it would be something like this. Such a small thing that would- had caused so many deaths. Had it never been made, maybe the world would never have had to fear the name Gellert Grindelwald. (Maybe Leta would still be _alive_ , and Queenie wouldn’t be gone).

“ _You never met a monster you couldn't love.”_ Leta’s words swam in his head, she was gone, and he had the proof that more people would die in his hand. Until it was destroyed he knew there was no chance of anyone defeating Grindelwald, a whole team of Aurors hadn’t even paused him. Part of him wanted so desperately to call Grindelwald a monster… the carnage, the hateful charm, like some fallen angel from the muggle religion. But he knew Grindelwald was a man-- human in a way that made it all worse. (There must have been something redeeming once upon a time, Newt thought, the blood pact warming up from the heat of his skin).

Theseus had put on a brave face, but Newt knew, that sooner or later, the shock would end, and the facade would shatter. (He was supposed to have gotten married in months, and now the possibility of that was ruined). Tina and Jacob were both distracted, eyes distant and far away. Newt wasn’t sure what he would, or even could say. Queenie was… had joined Grindelwald, and passed unscathed through the ring of fire. 

He wondered if either of them regretted it. (He wasn’t sure of it would be better or worse if they did). Part of Newt thought they must. All the bloodshed and grief Grindelwald had caused, and Dumbledore was a good teacher, a good man (at least that’s what he had always thought). If he didn’t regret it, what would that say about him? 

The Niffler was a warm spot on his lap, curled up with a loose necklace that Newt had gotten for it years ago. For all the trouble he had gone through to quell the creatures habits, this was one moment when he was almost glad for it. ( _Almost_. There were too many thoughts swimming in his head to be completely certain that this was for the best). 

In the next minute or two they’d arrive at Hogwarts, and Newt knew that he'd have to tell Dumbledore, and that there would be no explanation that described it all. No great fitting justification to make it better. Newt bit his lip, in thought, slipping the blood pact into his pocket. Maybe there would be nothing to make what had happened alright, but there would be _something_. There had to be.

**_IV. Vinda Rosier & Queenie Goldstein, 1929_ **

Her friendship with Vinda had come out of desperation. The others were… devoted. So was Vinda, but Queenie liked her, she made things quiet when nothing else in the world could. She was brilliant, and poised in a way that would have made her perfect in Wampus house, or Horned Serpent. It was because she knew Vinda who talked to her about the Greater Good in an attempt to make Queenie understand that she knew that Grindelwald had _changed_ after the Paris rally.

His walls were good, some of the best she had ever seen, but even he wasn’t impervious to the echo of emotions. There was the expected fury, and hatred, that permeated his mind, and that of Nurmengard itself, but the one that had never failed to surprise her was _love_. Tainted with feeling of nettles and rot, but it was there, and she understood it. That feeling, that ache. It was the feeling of lost lovers and ones that were forbidden. Queenie guessed it was a mix of both, but she’d never dare guess who. 

If she had to, something had changed after the Paris rally, but she never saw enough of him to know. It came in flashes, and it was the purest emotion Queenie thinks she ever gets from him.

* * *

Vinda had been here, since not the beginning, but near to it. Grindelwald was charming with his poetic words and drive, and it was easy to fall captive. The rest of the wizarding world was content with the constant state of things, parallel to the non-magiques-- the no-mags as Queenie called them. Grindelwald called them muggles, which she had thought strange. It wasn’t the German word for it, but it _was_ the British.

She’d been his lieutenant for months the first time she had seen the blood pact (she recognized what it, magical artifacts had been taught at Beauxbatons, and it had caught her attention. People rarely made them unless they were certain of their loyalty to another, the consequences for breaking one were… severe). He had kept it close, and Vinda had never questioned the love he must have had for the one he made it with. A man, she assumed. He had never flinched when he had found her in bed with another woman, and Muggles couldn’t make blood pacts. 

There was something tragic in. Either he was dead or on the wrong side of the war, and she had seen the single minded determination Grindelwald had, the way he’d avoided Britain, and the way he seemed aggravated by New Scamander’s very presence. Grindelwald never asked, and she would never give him the information, but part of her suspected that it was Albus Dumbledore).

**_V. Emmanuel Mohren, 1969_ **

Nurmengard had few guards now, and the mostly empty tower whistled with the sound of the wind. Emmanuel was one of the two; both Britain and Germany had deigned to make sure that they each held a stake in the incarceration of Gellert Grindelwald, and Emmanuel figured it was a point of fear and of pride for the two countries. Albus Dumbledore may have defeated him, but Nurmengard was on German soil, and part of Emmanual was surprised that Britain had still sent someone with the trouble brewing in their country.

He’d been here a year and a half, not the longest that someone had worked there, but longer than many, longer than the last several guards. Most people left after a few months, the isolation and the distance and the knowledge that once, the man in the cell had been the most feared wizard in the world. Even within the short time he’d seen three of the British guards come and go.They never stuck around as long-- desperate to go home and see their families, and fight in their war with their new Dark Lord. It wasn’t his war though, they didn’t talk to him, and Emmanuel couldn’t bring himself to ask awkward questions to fill the silence.

He was amazed that Grindelwald was still sane- the draft and crumbling tower drove people off and they could leave, he couldn’t. It was enough to drive men mad, and it did sometimes. (He’d heard the story of the guard who’d run out of Nurmengard crying and screaming, raging against some invisible threat).

Their job was easy. They brought food thrice a day, and mail when it arrived (the only person to ever send it was Albus Dumbledore and Emmanuel had made the decision not to ask or poke at the past. Some secrets were best left secret). Brenan had always wanted to inspect it to make sure it was ‘safe’, like it was some form of secret treason, or nefarious plot. Emmanuel had never cared enough, and just swept it up with the tray of food when he went to bring it up to the cell. 

He’d almost befriended the phoenix that brought the letters, and while he was pretty certain that owl treats weren’t the right thing, he’d taken to carrying a handful in his pockets for when the bird arrived in all it’s fiery beauty. Durmstrange had mentioned them in one of the classes as creatures of great loyalty and myth. He had never expected to see one in person, and now he gave it letters to take back and forth between Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore. 

The job was stable, and Grindelwald was intelligent, in a way that none of his professors ever had been. The first time he asked a question it had been innocuous-- a potions project that had been bothering him for weeks. He hadn’t meant to ask, but he hadn’t found an answer and then Grindelwald gave one. He could understand why people followed the man, even here, he was charming.

And years later, when someone asks him about the book published by the British journalist, Emmanuel will think to the piles of letters, and know that that, in its own way was love.

_“I never knew what Grindelwald was thinking. I was only the guard.”_


End file.
